#Criss Angel is STILL a Douchebag|SPN verse

[brooklynislandgirl]

❝ you feel like home to me. ❞ - Nilza

Sense and Sensibility || Accepting

"Then stay," she whispers. "Don't pretend any more that is doesn't hurt ya even a lil bit t' slip out the door when you think I'm asleep. Don't make up excuses on how you happened to be in town when I know you couldn't be happier'n a pig in mud when you put it in your rear-view mirror. But you keep comin' back an' I'd like t' think that maybe, just maybe...I don' got a lot to offer, but what I do...." She looks down and away. She doesn't sound convincing, even to her own ears. She has a cabin that's barely a single room with everything in it sixth hand at best, and living in her holler is hard work. Her hands are often rough, stained with soil and blood and it's more eking an existence than really living life. But there's family here. There's community. The mountains that loom over one and all still echo with wolf-song and old, traditional ways. Everyone in the Sept looks out for each other. It's safe, here. Mostly. But as far as Beth herself goes? She's not got an education, doesn't even know how to read, can just get by with numbers when she has to go into town for supplies. She isn't glamorous, she isn't anything special really, beyond being the Sept's granny-woman. But she'd be willing to learn, to be all the things Nilza could want... "Stay."

[brooklynislandgirl]

❝ this bathing suit or this one? ❞ 

In The Summertime || Accepting

It isn't exactly envy that perches on Beth's features as she thoughtfully peruses the two suits Nilza holds up, comparing style and colour, the woman's sumptuous curves and how each one might wrap around her, and then, some small part of her boggles at the idea of having more than one of anything for yourself, not counting underpants, gloves, shoes, socks. Maybe it is best said anything ...frivolous. She never really thinks of her home as shabby. Sure, it sags and creaks in places. It doesn't have running water, or electricity, and there's an outhouse instead of a bathroom, but...it's home. Having met Nilza and starting seeing the wide world beyond her in glimpse through Nilza's phones and those shy forays into town, Beth has to wonder what keeps bringing her...back here. And suddenly she's pushing all those thoughts away. "Ain't nothin' fancy, jus' goin' to the lake...so...maybe...that one?" The dark one with the geometric colourful design that would hug Nilza nearly as tight as Beth could, maybe better. She grins. "Or you could be like me...jus' bring a' ole tee-shirt, an' some cut offs. Whatever makes you happy an' comfortable, an' ya don't mind gettin' messy. We're doin' a fish-fry later."

[brooklynislandgirl]

3: Does your muse like to dress up for their partner or themselves? If so, what do they wear? {for Beth}

Deeper than Skin || Accepting

"Jus' come on down to the cafe," she'd said with something straining her tone. "I...I miss you."

Beth never volunteers coming down from her mountain, unless the Sept needs something in particular; purchasing supplies or picking up donations, bringing down whatever commodities the townsfolk are willing to buy. She knows Nil thinks it's a backwater, barbaric way to live, and maybe she doesn't ask why then does Nilza seem more at peace, happier when she's staying in the holler, and living as one with the land rather than a conqueror.

She also uses preciously paid for minutes to make the phone call, and maybe that grabs Nil's imagination more than she'll admit to. Whatever the case though, they end up meeting at the Range. Normally Beth sticks out like a sore thumb, wearing hand-me-downs from a generation or two back. Most of the things hang off her frame less out of modesty and more that she's just that small and doesn't bother to alter things. So maybe it's a surprise that she's standing by an empty table in a long pretty coral-and-white sundress that almost seems made more of air than any earthly material. Little strappy flat sandals rather than bare, dusty feet. Hair that is often kept in iron-tight braids flows long and loose down her shoulders. She even has a few little touches; a bone necklace, a silver ring. A black almost shapeless long cardigan sits in the booth behind her. She looks like any hipster boho-chick from Anytown, USA. But all of it is new, and she feels so exposed with arms, and a good deal of her back exposed to the elements. She has a bouquet of wildflowers tied with a burlap ribbon on the table top. The nervous smile doesn't really go away but her eyes gleam as Nilza walks in. And when she gets to the table? Beth steps forward into her personal space. One hand comes to Nilza's waist. The other strays near the taller woman's wrist and Beth manages a full-on-the-lips kiss. "I was hopin' you'd come. Never really did this whole date thing."

[brooklynislandgirl]

If your muse was evicted from their home with no warning, today, where would they go? What would they do?

Tell Me No Questions... || Accepting Firelight plays in her hair, chases each strand with the shimmer of sunset as she sits on the floor, knees hugged tightly to her chest, her back to the hearth's warmth; proof that the dark silk of it isn't as black as it can sometimes seem. A hint of Celtic ancestry she doesn't seem to particularly relish or point out. Outside the wind saws through the trees and sounds like the baying of wolves if one listens to closely to it. Oil lamps occasionally flicker in the draft between some of the chinks between the logs, long ago weathered by long holler summers. She keeps apologising for it, saying she'll someday get around to fixing it. She says that about a lot of things but the thing that's most prevalent is that her somedays never seem to come. She looks up at him with those riverstone eyes and the shadows beneath them give her a haunted sort of expression. For a moment all the grit that has rubbed him the wrong way, all the smartness of her mouth seems to fall away, and even though they seem to be about the same age as each other, she looks so much smaller, younger...fragile. "Homes are only temporary, ya know. Some day not a stick'er stone of this place'll still be standin'. All eaten up by th'earth. Take with it the stories an' the ghosts, an' it'll be like it once was, before a body ever set foot on it." Grim as it is, there's actually a touch of hope in her pronouncement, like it's a wish worth sharing. Then, comes the spark. The one he's felt the bite of before, that first night he tripped over the place. "Like t' see 'em try, I tell you what. Done it before, I'm told, long before I was born. Men from oil companies, from mining ones. Buyin' up all'a th' hollers they could for pennies on the dollar. Generations packin' up an' movin' other places before everything once their's got stripped from the soil. Diggin' so deep into Grandmother's bones that the scars won't never heal. But not here. We won' let 'em. She...the land...ain't for sale, no matter how pretty the promises. Not the rivers, or the skies, neither." She shakes her head though and turns her head, her face, away from him, resting a cheek on her knees. Out of sight she closes her eyes and feels them burn with tears no one will see her shed. "But if somethin' happened like you say...I..." She doesn't know. There really isn't anywhere to go. She could try and make a peace to stay a night or two up in the caves with her feral kin, but she's still human and she's not exactly welcome there. And if she could be run off the mountain? Means those who would offer her shelter have already sacrificed themselves for the cause. Which means she has nowhere to go. Town don't need a granny woman with no city skills. She's got no people who aren't really up in the hills with her. She shrugs, heart heavy and hurting. The it occurs to her, something powerful. A sort of epiphany, if she even knew what that word mean. "S'what you feel like, ain't it?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

🏢-Most public place they’ve had sex, or would like to have sex? Nilza

Sin a little Sin || Accepting

The rain is heavy on the roof, and the fire in the hearth is banked low. In a rare display of magick, Beth kept a few candles burning to provide light without shedding heat or melting the precious bee's wax. If they fall asleep before snuffing them, there won't be a chance of burning down the cabin. Beth's head rests on Nilza's shoulder as they lay at one another's sides, fingers clasped with one set of arms. She is not really shocked by the question, it seems innocent enough, and they've long been treading the delicate dance of courtship. Still it does earn a little giggle from the granny-woman because she knows Nilza already knows the partial answer. That she hasn't yet, at her advanced age, taken a lover or a mate from amongst her wolf kin. Partly because she can provide no children for the tribes, which defeats the point of even being kin ~a complicated relationship that she's tried and probably failed at before~ but that her skills and talents and ability to work small miracles through Gaia's will keep her safe enough. To add insult to injury, Beth has never found herself to work the way most people do. It takes more than a pretty smile or a drunken come-on to attract her. The few people she has kept company with either eventually move on to likely partners, or she's never around long enough to find a connection with. It's a compliment then, that Nilza is different, and that she's been steadily laying a foundation for that kind of romance with Beth, though honestly Beth could even begin to say why. With her beauty and her worldliness and in some ways not being from the hills or the closest towns, she could have her pick. Beth has very little to offer in the face of what could potentially be. "Anywhere in th' woods, I s'pose," she says gently, hesitation laced throughout. "I mean, s'where our lupus ~wolf born kin~ do their mating, an' there's a sort of…understandin' I'd guess that just inclines a body to give someone else privacy. Maybe by the creek or the lake. S'nice there, especially when the moon's grown full an' th' lightnin' bugs is out. Look like a lil quilt of stars, you know?" She laughs a little more richly and gives her hand a squeeze. "Don' think I could do…down in town. Wouldn't feel comfortable, the idea of all them strangers starin' an' all. Wha' about you? I'm gonna go out on a limb an' guess…someone pretty caught your eye outside a tavern of sorts, an' ya made it far as yer truck."

[brooklynislandgirl]

💋 from Nil with romance and reservations on the existence of good luck :3

Tabhair póg dom, is Éireannach mé || Accepting

Beth cannot express how glad she is when she hears a truck outside and a peek out the window proves it's not one of the National Guard. A few hikers have turned up missing and so there have been search and rescue parties all up and down the mountains which has put the entire Sept on alert and tension. None of the packs have admitted to having anything to do with the people who have gone missing. Most conventional wisdom muttered or growled under breath is that a few stupid humans aren't anything to be sad about, but the kinfolk and the elders know that that's just the rage of the young. They know that things could go bad with so many strangers poking around the sacred lands. Cubs are kept close, and a couple of the packs are now involved in the search. Beth doesn't know what to make of it all, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't scared. The last thing they want or need is a stand off between human soldiers and the tribes, the collateral damage is too high a cost. But for now, she lets out a breath and fixes a smile. In the reflection of the glass Beth finds herself trying to hurriedly fix a few stray wisps of hair back into place and straightens her dress. If she knew Nilza was going to come today, she would have put on her best dress. As it is, the light streaming in through the windows, the warmth from the over where supper's cooking, and the fresh baked scent of soda bread might have to be enough. The door is opened perhaps almost as soon as Nilza thinks about putting a hand on it and she's greeted with the warmest sort of welcome, a slim armed hug around her neck and maybe Beth lingers a little too long, breathing in the smell of her hair. By the end of the night though, Beth has forgotten all the things that had her blood buzzing like bees and while they curl up in front of the fire toasting the evening with the apple-shine, Nilza does mention her being at least part Irish. It's clear that the Latina doesn't really put stock in all the things Beth does, but they have different views. When Nilza asks if she really believes in it all, Beth laughs. "Better question would be…do you?" Her hand comes up and cups Nilza's cheek, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath a calloused thumb which she's almost apologetic for, but not quite. She wonders if Nilza can feel the faint tremble to that touch. "Idea behind it comes from kissin' the Blarney stone in its castle. Supposed to bring you luck an' t' bless ya with the skill of smooth talkin' flattery. Of course,w e're a long way from the auld sod…so I guess the next best thing is…kissin' someone who's Irish." It takes those few moments to work up the nerve to lean in. Green-gold eyes half lidded she focuses on Nilza's lips. How pretty they are. How soft they seem. Imagining them sweet with traces of apple warmth, counterpoint to the almost cinnamon nature of her own. A compliment like carved spoons nestled together. She remembers what the woman had said about what she'd do to someone like Frost if he'd kissed her without permission and Beth knows she's playing with fire but she can't help herself. She's been daydreaming about this for a while now, and she doesn't mean Nilza any harm. When her mouth presses against Nilza's, there's a certain kind of delicacy. No great urgency or desperation that turns into a bite or a flail. If anything it's maybe a little uncertain, the hesitation that comes from someone who doesn't really have any experience. But there's the intention of desire. Fingers that feather through Nilza's hair, the start of a shy smile that parts Beth's lips. "You're beautiful," she whispers. "Sweet." Then even more quietly if possible, a fervent sort of prayer. "Please don't be mad." Then she isn't saying anything at all, as she's too caught up in pulling Nilza closer for another more solid kiss.

[brooklynislandgirl]

2. Are relationships ever worth it?

Generating Steam Heat || Accepting

The fact that Nilza even asks that hurts Beth's heart. The woman has been so damaged by heartbreak and trauma that even with all her skills as a granny-woman, she doesn't know that she can ever fix that or find some way to ameliorate the pain. Nilza has glanced over the details and from what she knows Beth hasn't had the gall to ask her for more than what she's shared. A wound needs to breath, it needs to drain, but once it's scabbed or scarred over, it's cruel to reopen it. There would be old pain and new and a potential to do more harm than good. Nilza helps her hang a sheet on the line; the sun as warm and bright as an embrace between old friends. The spring air is fresh and sweet with the scent of green growing grass and new flowers. It's beautiful and it will still be a few weeks before the rains set in. That's part of the reason Beth is airing out the cabin, leaving its windows and door open, why she's sweeping away the now stale winter from every eave and corner. "I…s'pose it depends on what kind ya mean. My brother was my closest kin an' we were inseparable, until his las' hunt….an' he never made it home. Nothin' in my life has been the same since, an' there's not a minute that goes by I don't wish I had gone with him, or I could bring him back. An' much as it might hurt, I don't regret the time we had together." A part of her died with him and she's been floundering ever since, not knowing what to do with herself, not knowing how to fill the hours now that she's alone. She picks up a clean pillowcase from the basket and hangs it on the line. "Amongst the Tribes," and using that specific word she means the wolves she calls family, "It is considered an honourable deed to choose a kinfolk ~a human like me or one of the wolves~ to be your mate. Every year, that honour increases, grows when you create offspring. So much importance is put on havin' a mate an' increasinin' our dwindlin' numbers." Except that she, as a choice, would bring dishonour, considering that she cannot increase the next generation. At best she might be chosen by one of the metis among their kind, just as sterile and third class a citizen of their cultural nation as she is, marked by the sins committed by their parents. But that's something Nilza doesn't really need to know. Maybe Beth tells her too much already. "But if I'm tellin' ya the truth, then I gotta say no act of love however brief or long-lasting is a bad thing. Reachin' out an' finding a life with someone else…however that might look like, for however long it might last…I can't see somethin' wrong in that. I mean who doesn't want to know that they're cared for, loved, missed, yearned for? That in all the world there's at least one person, maybe more, who sees you and knows you?" Beth pauses, digs a bare toe in the soft earth at her feet for a minute, feeling a rush of heat burning up the back of her neck. "D'you think it's so bad to be that someone, Nil?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@southern-belle-outcasts  {{xx}} Unlike her cousins who become eight-foot plus snarling beasts of rage, Beth typically doesn't have much of a violent bone in her body. It was not the role of warrior that Grandmother had chosen for her, clearly. So in a way she might be just as surprised as Nilza looks when she shoves the other woman out of reflex. Beth has never really had cause to express the emotions that live so deep inside it would take an entire mining crew to bring them up if they could carve them out of her bedrock. But when Nilza is rocked a bit by her impetuousness, and more importantly made a sound something similar to a wounded pup? All low and breathy and not even proper pain? Beth's brows shoot up, her hands fly to her mouth and she gasps at the total outburst. It only takes a few seconds for the shock to wear itself thin enough for her instincts to put their boots on by the strap and get to marching. "Wha-what happened?" She asks, not that it matters. No, Grandmother had given her the gifts to see any injury that lay beneath the skin and gotten into bone and flesh, and sometimes a body's spirit. Also given her the means to heal all them sort like a proper Granny Woman should.With an entitled sort of personal invasion, Beth starts tugging up Nilza's shirt, baring soft and equally dusky flesh as she goes. There's no elegance or seduction here, only pure concern.Eyes reach up to meet Nilza's when she's fully exposed. "Once you're on the mend, I'll kill 'em. But...you don' mind if I treat this, do ya?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@southern-belle-outcasts   {{continued from: here }}

Beth's head whips up at the threat of violence; clearly such a thing is as foreign to her as life down in town, with the world that Nilza describes sometimes. The width of those green eyes also speak to a touch of fear. Maybe she's never seen the Cousins in their full form of rage, the warrior bodies they wear. Knowing what she knows, Beth hopes that Nilza never does. The sight of one is enough to cause gibbering madness in the stoutest of hearts, an instinctive terror from ancestral memory. Aeons ago when humanity was still in its infancy, the wolves' duty was to cull the herd, to keep them in their place. The practice eventually ended but the fear of the dark, terror of the howls and sheer blood-thirst have remained with vivid results. Descendant kin spread amongst human and wolves were mercifully spared that delirium but it doesn't mean that Beth wants Nilza to ever be in that kind of danger. There's something very sweet though that she's worried about Beth all the same for different reasons, and that she's offering a kind of apology for it. "I don' mind. Andy used to swing me 'round all the time when we were young'uns." It becomes Beth's turn to be confused and she pauses, squinting up at Nil. She knows the woman's speaking what can only be assumed as her native language, but Beth doesn't really know Spanish. Has no idea what the woman is saying, though she thinks it does have something to do with Spirits, though likely she's thinking of very different ones than those that Beth means. By virtue of being a witch, she can hear the wind and the plants, she can hear almost all of natural world. She doesn't know if that's whom Nilza has a problem with, or if she means the restless dead. Beth's own father had said the same thing more or less. A shudder runs through her spine though making her quiver like a willow leaf. She doesn't think about it, muchless ever talks of it. Andy had taken care of it anyway, and that had been years ago when Beth was still barely a stripling. She also can't help but be a little jealous. She has had dreams about the idea of school. There's a picturesque one down in town, and though the boards are now boarded up and the building sits empty, it used to be red brick and white boards. The idea of spending wet autumn days and cold winter mornings inside of its thick walls learning about things has always caught her imagination. She would have liked it quite a lot. But the story that Nilza tells her breaks Beth's heart in a way she can't explain. Maybe because she can't imagine sharing herself with someone she wasn't in love with. She can't imagine what knowing someone like that could even possibly be like but the sorrow clings to Nilza like cobwebs, doesn't it? Beth gets up from her knees and brushes the dark loam from her hands almost in mimic of the other woman's pantomime. "Sometimes, ain't about what is meant for us, or what we want. Sometimes's about what we need, deep down, all of us." And just like that, she closes the distance between them. Carefully as though she were trying to cradle a spring lamb she put surprisingly sturdy hands on Nilza's arms and leans her chin down onto the woman's shoulder. A hug that leaves room, an expression of understanding and care. A little awkward, sure, but only because Beth herself is so deprived.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Advent Calendar: Day 5

@southern-belle-outcasts​

Beth has spent weeks leading up to Solstice night to prepare for Christmas. She’d scrubbed every last inch of her cottage from roof to floorboards, on her hands and knees or standing atop the chair. Just because it was old and sagging in places didn’t mean it shouldn’t be neat as a pin. It’s a bit of a point of pride for the little kinfolk, even if that pride is small. Once that was done, then it was time to lay in fresh wood ~Frost-Rends-The-Bane, the Wendigo packmate most know as John, had been kind and stacked enough for her to get through the winter. While it was his favourite season, he knows she would never survive without the heat. Most of the wood is old, felled by age or death or storms. And in collecting it, there’s greenery ~pine boughs and cones, mistletoe. She’d brought up apples from the cellar, dried to perfection. The rest is just as rustic; flour and spices, molasses and buttermilk, a touch of bourbon she keeps for medicinal purposes. It takes her an entire day to make the apple stack cake, but traditions are what the season’s about. She hangs stockings and fills them with little things; fruits and nuts, a jar of restorative tea made with chickweed, wild cherry bark, dandelion, and prized ginger root from town. There’s a tin of molasses pulls, a jar of blackberry sugar. All things she’s made herself, like the rest of Nilza’s gifts, though she had spent a precious few dollars to get actual paper and ribbons to wrap them in. She’d knitted the blanket over a course of months, shaded it in blues and greens with dyes she’d made herself. A matching sweater and bones for Saphira. To go with the straw stuffed pillow she’d made for the pup to lay on. Perhaps not as special as the little bone fetish she’d bartered for. It’s a simple thing, carved in the shape of a wolf with Luna’s face smiling down upon it. When in an uncertain situation, the fetish will react to the presence of the Wyrm by turning a mottled, bilious green. The darker or more powerful the evil, the darker the hue it would turn. If Nilza brings it back to the Sept, it will become purified again. Just some way to help protect her as she pursues her vengeance against evil. And in its own way, it might also remind her to come and visit more often than she does, something of a gift to Beth herself. She takes down the old family bible, brought when the first of her family had come across from Ireland, and ancient then. The Nativity story is marked with page markers, ribbons long faded and frayed but still soft, satiny. It is the only thing she will ask of the woman, if she’s willing to read it aloud to her. Normally it had been Pa’s job, which then fell to Andy when he’d passed. Now that her brother is also gone to his eternal life, there’s no one left to read it to her. And last, of course, was to set the candles in the window, dipped beeswax and scented with wildflowers. She would keep them burning night and day as a symbol of welcome and guidance as tradition dictates, from the Solstice until Old Christmas, just in case her friend is delayed and can’t get into the holler before the new year. Oh, but how she hopes otherwise, the sooner the better.   

[brooklynislandgirl]

Look into my eyes- whomever Beth wishes to soul gaze

Eye of the Beholder || Accepting

I SEE:

Absolute Conviction  |  Aggression  |  Ambition  |  Anger  |  Anxiety  |  Apathy  |  Arrogance  |  Bloodthirst  |  Bravery  |  Compassion  |  Confidence  |  Conflict  | Courage  |  Darkness  |  Defeat |  Denial  |  Desire  |  Despair  |  Determination  |  Devotion  |  Disappointment  |  Distrust  |  Dominance  |  Emptiness  |  an Enemy  |  Enlightenment  |  Envy  |  Excitement  |  Exhaustion  |  Elitism  |  Experience  |  Fear  |  a Friend  |  a Future  |  Gentleness  |  Greed  |  Grief  |  Guilt  |  Honesty  |  Honor  |  Hope  |  Hostility  |  Ignorance  |  an Illness  |  Insecurity  |  Integrity  |  Intoxication  |  Kindness  |  Lies  |  Loneliness  |  Longing  |  Loss  |  a Lover  |  Loyalty  |  Malicious Intent  |  Mania  |  Melancholy  |  Misery  |  Negativity  |  Overcompensation  |  Pain  |  Paranoia  |  Passion  |  Perseverance  |  Pettiness  |  Pity  |  Positivity  |  Pressure  |  Pride  |  a Purpose  |  Racism  |  Regret  |  Resentment  |  Resignation  |  Resolve  |  Sadness  |  Self-Hatred  |  Sexism  |  Shattered Remains  |  a Shining Light  |  Something Familiar  |  Spite  |  Stress  |  Stupidity  |  Submission  |  Tranquility  |  Trauma  |  Trust  |  Vengeance  |  Warmth  |  Wisdom  |  Wrath  |  a Cry for Help  |  Something Eating Your Mind  |  the Years have Changed You

YOU’RE:

Animalistic  |  Approachable  |  Broken  |  Closed-Off  |  Cold  |  Crafty  |  Crazy  |  Defensive  |  Devious  |  Difficult  |  Disheartened  |  Emotionally Detached  |  Frightened  |  Frightening  |  Genuine  |  Guarded  |  Headstrong  |  Heartless  |  Human  |  Immature  |  Impatient  |  Inhuman  |  Insane  |  Intuitive  |  Lost  |  Mature  |  Noble  |  Patient  |  Pitiful  |  Primitive  |  Pure  |  Reliable  |  Remorseless  |  Reserved  |  Resourceful  |  Short-Tempered  |  Simplistic  |  Sly  |  Soft-Hearted  |  Struggling  |  a Threat  |  Trapped  |  a Troublemaker  |  Trusting  |  Understanding  |  Unique |   Unpredictable  |  Unwavering  |  a Victim  |  Wicked  |  Feeling Vindictive  |  Guilty of Something  |  Hiding Something  |  Lost in Thought  |  Planning Something  |  Scared of Me  |  Scaring Me  |  Someone I can Trust  |  Someone I Can’t Recognize Anymore  |  Someone to Fear  |  Someone Worthy of Respect  |  Weak to Manipulation  |  Weighed by Something

YOU:

Aren’t Being Yourself  |  Belittle Yourself  |  Don’t Want to Hurt Me  |  Don’t Want to Leave Me  |  Drown Yourself in Something  |  Feel Alone  |  Feel Empowered  |  Have a Plan that Involves Me  |  Have No One Else to Turn to  |  Have Nowhere Else to Go  |  Have Seen Some Things  |  Haven’t Been Sleeping  |  Lie to Yourself  |  Lost Faith/Trust in Me  |  Lost Something/Someone Important  |  Need Me/my Help  |  No Longer Believe Me  |  See Me as a Thing  |  See Me as Someone Else  |  Seek to Hurt/Harm  |  Seek to Manipulate  |  Think Highly of Yourself  |  Think I’m Hiding Something  |  Think Little of Yourself  |  Think You Know Best  |  Want to Hurt Me  |  Want to Protect Me  |  Want to Sleep with Me  |  Want to Use Me

[brooklynislandgirl]

Are there any physical items that make your muse happy? For Beth

It Came From The Lost Meme Lagoon || -

With Nilza in the only good chair, Beth sits by the fire while occasionally feeding a new log to keep it burning bright. Eventually the woman will go to bed, the brass affair in the corner of the squat single room cabin and Beth will take the chair. Kind of like one of those sliding puzzle things she'd seen once at the fair but couldn’t afford to buy. Andy would have made one for her but wood had been scarce that winter and they needed it more for survival.  She looks around the cottage at all the things that have been repurposed one way or another. She’s never had anything new, or anything entirely of her own. She doesn’t really have anything of value either, not the way most folks mean it. The more mystically inclined could all but feel the talismans and the fetishes cluttering up her small space, held in trust by the cousins that make up a third of her small community. Physical manifestations of spirits and of Gaia’s mercy or retribution, some that she’s made herself, others that are magick solidified. “Uhm. I got me a stuffed turtle....” She points toward the bed. It is a small and almost hideous thing, its green fur loved to near non-existence, with mismatched eyes ~one beady black, the other a milky coloured button~ and bits of cloth making up part of the shell that’s torn over the years. “One time when I was little, my brother won it for me at this carnival came through town. An’ I’ve had it since. Special to me cause it was a gift an’ because... Once Turtle was a great spirit. Carries the world on his back. He was the definition of honour an’ steadfastness. Gentle an’ sturdy, he encouraged his children to defend first an’ attack second. But he was lost long long ago an’ no one hears Turtle’s voice no more.” That is enough of the story that she isn’t violating any part of the Litany, and not the still painful loss suffered by all of the people. “The quilt there, too.” It’s nearly as much of a mess as the turtle, old and sun-faded. It’s comprised of variously patterned squares, washed and saved from whatever the original piece might have been, some handed down through the generations. It’s re-sewn when it needs to be, with new scraps. “My great great some’n like that grandmother made the original one, an’ more gets added to it as years go by. It’s full of love and warmth.” She rises to her feet and fetches them more of her Apple pie to steel themselves against the nip of cold. “Things though. Ain’t never really had much t’ worry about, an’ don’ see the point of holdin’ on to it. You can replace ‘em, but you can’t replace your kin, your land... people you love.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

“Christmas is just like any other day, except you drink coquito instead of plain rum. The rest? No. I think I’m good. You should try, probably sweeter than your apple pie.”

Snow piles up on the porch and in the hills beyond it. The smell of wood smoke and wet branches fill the tiny holler that she makes her home in, enmeshed with the fog sitting low to the ground. She's grateful that Nilza hadn't decided to try heading out, and glad to have a bit of company for the holiday. Most of her pack do not celebrate the mass, and side-eye her for keeping traditions from long ago. The fire warms the house and fights back the drafts, and Beth is wearing her best dress. Candles carefully trimmed with greenery linger on surfaces and while her tree might not be the biggest or the best, it sits in the window, ornamented with hand knit decorations, twigs and berries and stones. There's a plump pillow near the fire for Nilza's pup to sleep on and a leg bone with some bits of meat still on it for a treat. There's apple stack waiting to be had, and a small feast cooking away. The cabin isn't very big, a single room affair but it's cozy and Beth hesitates between the large chair when she's set her guest and the wardrobe she pulled a box from. It is preciously wrapped with scraps of Christmases past, and a pretty ribbon similar to the one that ties her braids together down her back. "I dunno wha' is that." She is pretty sure there's no actual coke or mosquitos, which is kind of what is sounds like. "And...uhm...will you still have this? I...made it for you."

[brooklynislandgirl]

@southern-belle-outcasts

Uncomfortable Headcanons meme- ANGLERFISH - does your muse smoke? if yes, when did they start? do they plan to stop anytime soon?  A FATHER’S LOVE - talk about your muse’s relationship with their father  BURNT OFFERING - what’s your muse relationship with fire? are they afraid of it, or do they find it fascinating?

     It was one thing to regularly drink rum- there she knew her limits, knew how much she should take in before it started getting questionable. Not that drinking to the point of being flat out drunk happened often with her. She was too used to it by this point. But moonshine…that shit would sneak up on you and fast. Add enough flavor to cover the sharp kick, and you didn’t even realize you’re now tipsy a quarter of the way in.

    So rather than her norm of telling anyone asking to none to kindly go fuck themselves, she just sighed and stared at the half full glass with the amber liquid for a good while. That fuzzy, giddy feeling of alcohol swiftly entering her bloodstream was being replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach; but she had definitely gone to the point where the padlock she so carefully kept locking her private emotions and memories had been chucked to the side. Beth wanted to ask, yeah? Well, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Maybe that would teach the other woman not to ask personal questions. Doubtful. But she was already running her mouth, the answers presenting themselves before she ever even decided they could be given, so now it was too late.

     “Mmm, never planned on smoking. Mami would get so mad at tio for doing it. He only ever did it outside when he would visit, but didn’t stop her from threatening to take the chancla to him. I think she muttered pendejo under her breath, not quite sure. She didn’t like to swear. So I never saw the appeal to smoking, not like it smells all that pleasant to begin with,” she admitted, tapping the light blue box of American Spirits on the table with her pointed fingernails, having set it there from her back pocket so as not to crush it when she sat.

    The tightening of her throat, that feeling of a cold invisible hand threatening to silence any words she dared to utter was only reduced by the warm burn of more moonshine. And just as the lump in her throat was loosened, as was her tongue. “So I hit twenty…thought shit was actually starting to not suck. Then my prometido- ¡Mierda! Cuál es la palabra…the- the fucking word! Fiance. Tortured to death. Baby lost because I have such…wonderful coping skills,” she muttered, eyebrows raising as she scoffed and took another drink, wincing at the welcome burn. Words she never thought she would even ever say aloud. The alcohol was really the only reason she wasn’t curling up in a ball in recollection. “So after that…well, rum only went so far. Wasn’t enough to fill that hole. Pain demands to be felt. And I demand it fuck off. And who goddamn cares if I’m slowly killing myself? I sure don’t. So will I be stopping? Is the sun going to stop rising? I’ll stop then.”

    Tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling, as though the different cast shadows offered more of an answer to the question than her own head. Finally, after enough time had passed where it could be questioned if she even remembered what the question was, she laughed, shaking her head. She looked to Beth, lips pursed. “Apparently if you had a gun to my head, and asked me to describe to you papi���s face for a sketch artist or risk being shot…I couldn’t. Couldn’t…I couldn’t tell you shit. I vaguely, mind you- vaguely, remember in the mornings he would sit me in his lap, to blow on his coffee for him. You know, be ‘helpful’,” she said with a roll of her eyes, making air quotations.

    “I remember it was black coffee, and he’d have me stir in the one spoon of sugar. But I seem to be very at good at what I intended, which is pushing mi familia far, far out my mind.” The last words were quiet. Nilza couldn’t tell if she actually regretted that decision, or if it was just the moonshine making her think she regretted that decision because she was far more drunk than she ever would choose to get.

    Fist closed tightly, nails digging into her palm sharply and she sighed, just barely avoiding a shake to the breath as she tried to better collect herself. This was far too much unloading. Even inebriated, the fact she had brought up all this was starting to sink in, and she hated it. Hated being open, exposed and frank to a practical stranger. Being known was a weakness, people could use that against you. Make your pain a weapon to stab you in the back with.

    Pulling the lighter out of her pocket, she flicked her thumb to strike the lighting mechanism. Rather than the normal flame, a six inch tall flame shot up from the lighter. She had a habit of opening the top of her lighters, pushing the dial past normal adjustment parameters before closing it back up to create a ‘super’ flame. “I’ll light an incendio, watch it burn. Turn everything dead and broken, forgotten to just…despojos mortales, ashes. Maybe I wish it was me, hmm?” The smirk after the remark was not entirely altogether, her eyes staring at the flame as she said it before she released her thumb, allowing it to extinguish and looking back up, with enough hesitation it seem almost hesitant. “But in any case, it’s a good weapon. Gets rid of a lot of bad things. It’s a friend. A wild, consuming, greedy friend. Just have to…guide it properly.”

    She shrugged, slouching slightly as she finished off the moonshine, eyeing the other woman as she pushed the glass back to the middle of the table with the tips of her fingers. “Why you so nosy anyways? Boring shit, that you don’t actually care about. What’s the real reason?”

~*~*~*~*~

There's three things here at play.

The first is the very same Southern Hospitality that Nilza had spat upon their first meeting which hadn't gone well, all things considered. But more so, this was mountain hospitality, brought over long before. A kind that had roots that were ancient and bound to guest-right. There is a small tin of fresh baked herbed bread and a small cellar of salt to go with it.

The second comes from the minuscule amount of pride Beth displays in offering the amber coloured 'shine. It goes down smooth like the apple pie it's named after, but kicks like a mule with a nest of bees buzzing around its tender parts. It was traded for, hand over hand, all the way from Harlan county, from the Stills of Mags Bennett herself. The distance it has travelled, the pristine quality of the jug set on the table, it's one of her prized possessions.

And lastly, just because Beth was born and raised by a dozen generations back in these hills, she's not stupid. Moonshine happens to draw out the truth, distilled over the tongue. And she's not having a strange hunter under her roof through the night when she still has a healthy distrust of the woman. In the morning, once the woman's broken her fast and is able to think straight, some of the boys will escort her back to town. Where she goes from there won't be any of Beth's business unless Nilza chooses to come traipsing back up into the hills.

Which is why she pairs difficult questions with the flowing drinks.

She nods along. She doesn't know a great many of the words the woman speaks but enough of it comes through that she can follow, keep up with the story as it were. She was not a smoker herself but had lived with her brother long enough to become accustomed to it. Most of the time the smell makes her nose wrinkle but every once in a while, she feels herself missing the scent or taste of smoke lingering around. Andy didn't smoke them fancy kind that comes in boxes, though. Too expensive, too dangerous to get a hold of, and it was easier to come down out of the hills to pick up papers and roll your own. She still keeps a patch of tobacco growing because that was valuable for trading.

Beth's nails aren't as pretty as hers. They aren't fancy like hers, either. Without thinking about it she weaves her fingers together, back to back, and then closes her hands, effectively hiding the broken, partially bitten nails with the bits of earth still clinging underneath them. Her knuckles are rawboned from work. Rough. Lined. No one would look at them and call them pretty.

Not that that means she isn't paying attention, she is. And her heart goes out at the few words so quickly glossed over. Ironic, isn't it? If they had known each other those years in the past, Beth might have been able to help. Maybe not with her sweetheart, but at least with the infant. All along the hills the Riley women were known for their gifts, amongst them being midwives of the first water. More so when you add magick into the midst, the old rites and customs. It can be seen all around the little cabin they're in, with the way the plants and grasses thrive on her property. With the healthy children running barefoot through the holler, more than half of them welcomed into the world by Beth. Plentiful game, healthy fish in the streams no matter how much poison the mining companies pour into the land. But it all comes at a cost.

She swallows hard and bites back on the words that want to come rushing up and out between them. It would be unkind. But she does nudge the jug on the table a little closer to the Hunter with her elbow.

It's also very strange to her being able to feel both pity and jealousy in the same turn, something she's never experienced before. It knits her brows and twists her lips to one side. She worries at the inside corner with her sharpest teeth. Her gaze falls back to Nilza's hand. Then further slinks down toward the ground, moving low like a barn cat. Beth has no such pleasant memories of her father. The man had always been more stick and carrot, and there are still certain sounds and certain ways of being touched that instinctively make her flinch. She wasn't the least bit upset when the Mines refused to give him up and there is something satisfying and just in the back of her mind at the idea that he'd choked on his own evil down in the dark of a cave in, smothered by the earth herself. That had been long ago, though. She'd been ten and Andy had been fifteen. They dutifully gave away his unnecessary possessions and stopped sleeping on the floor. The only thing she really wonders about is if Andy would have gone as gnarled handed and as snowy up top as early as their father had, had he lived that long.

Somehow, she doubts it.

She doesn't do anything for long though because the hunter pulls a lighter and does something that sends a gout of flame so high that has her pushing her chair out away from the table, body stiff as she gets to her feet. Her hands come up to her chest and begin to curl instinctively into a countering gesture. The ceiling of her cabin isn't very tall, maybe only a half a foot above six feet. They are filled with her drying racks and covered in plants in various stages of desiccation, the herbs and roots that she uses in her works. Medicine and food, the lifeblood of her community. So very flammable. She cannot allow that, allow this woman to burn down her home, maybe her along with it.

Lines form at the corners of her eyes and mouth, her entire tiny frame practically quivering from the tension as she watches the fire. Even after it dies down, leaving the cabin unscathed, she cannot allow herself to relax. Though she tries to hide her discomfort by turning her back and making the few short paces to the fire-place ~the only means she has of heating the small space~ and puts a new log into it, poking it with the iron rod leaned up against the river-stone of her hearth. She takes her time in formulating answers that are demanded of her, trying to soothe her voice into something a little more normal before she returns to her seat.

Obligingly, she refills the woman's glass, takes a small tipple of her own, but she doesn't keep her eyes on Nilza when she finally finds the right words.

"When ya look at me, I know what ya see. An tribe entire of ignorant white folk. Dirt poor an' full of city additions. Livin' lil better'n animals, which some of us kinda are. An' ya come up here huntin' them for...reasons I don't play a' understandin. Jus' cause I ain't got no book learnin, an' don' know my letters, ya call me ignorant. Inhumane. Assume that jus' cause I'm a witch I got evil plans an' do some real wild stuff with that ole Devil. That I'm tryin t' trick ya into tellin' me a secret to use against ya."

She swallows quietly, shrugs one narrow shoulder. There's an honesty in her words that highlights a vulnerability that the young woman doesn't often show. Who would notice if she did?

"I get that there's evils in the world, Nilza. An' it ain't all haints an' black magick. It's a pa that beats on ya cause yous too little t' stop him. It's corruptin' the land for profit, poisonin' everything for miles 'round. A ma can't feed her babies but also can't get away from makin' more. It's yer elders dyin' an' takin' with them the stories about how ya lived in these parts for what feels like f'eva. Whatchin' what lil ya got gettin' smaller an' smaller by the day. Constantly bein' afraid of losin' jus' a little more.

"Mebbe, I guess, I were lookin for some kinda common ground. A place we could start from, even-footin' like. Ain't you never been curious about the world 'round you, an' the people in it?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

📼 Favorite movie romance?

Love, Love me do... || Accepting

Beth looks distinctly ill at ease. Even this town, small and backwards though it is, where they first met doesn’t fit quite right on her. The worn and sun bleached brick edifices ~ with shop windows more grime than glass these days~ are half empty but still too busy. Furtive glances are exchanged now and again. Comments are made behind the backs of hands covering mouths. Space is put between the women and others, children are clutched closer, husbands and brothers are dragged expediently along by their elbows. They are both strangers here; one garishly outlandish in attire, attitude and voice, the other a bygone from older times as stubborn as mountains and with a grudge perpetually teetering on too-narrow shoulders.

The linoleum floor tiles of the diner are dingy with age. The booths sag and bleed stuffing through red cracked vinyl. A half dozen decades of coffee rings and water glasses stain the sturdy, battered wood. 

Beth sits at the edge of her seat. Come down on high as a gesture of good faith but also as a preventative measure. The less curious Nilza is about her people, the better things are to be. A surreptitious glance around the mostly empty dining room has her hands plucking at the edges of the long black and button-less sweater, dragging it closed over the faded and dingy, plain dress beneath it. Hiding herself maybe. Or perhaps seeking comfort in the familiar, which seems less likely when she tucks one arm around herself, hand buried under the other arm. She picks up her cup and sips the unsweetened, creamless coffee.

“I...uh.. I’ve only ever been down to the picture-house one time, and that was years ago. I was near enough seventeen, an’ it was just after our pa had died. Andy come down to town to pick up supplies an’ ran into this gal he’d been sweet on for a while. And he didn’t want to leave me alone, so he paid for a ticket so he could spend time with her.”

There were details she was leaving out. Some not remembered, others didn’t matter. 

“Seems it was one of them made up stories, ya know? Two women havin’ trouble with their lives. One from out California way, other one’s from like England or somethin’ an’ they end up movin’ into each other’s houses. The California one falls in love with the other gal’s brother. And the English one sorta falls in love with the neighbour or somethin’. I don’t know. I...”

She looks up at Nilza finally and gives a half shrug. “T’be honest, I don’t think I really understand it much. But everyone seemed happy. And of course it was set at Christmas time, so it had to have a good end.”

She doesn’t know why the question is relevant except that either Nilza was just trying to find one more thing she could make fun of Beth for, or...

The hidden hand emerges and she reaches up and takes hold of one loose, messy braid, tugging at it gently as a way of soothing herself.

“I don’ know what kinda stories they been tellin’ when they shouldn’t... and while it’s true I’m a pretty good midwife, and have a gift for growin’ things, I can’t exactly help ya if you’re lookin’ for some kind of love spell. Not the way you might be meanin’. First it’s powerful bad luck t’ force someone to fall in love with someone else, and second... if ya gotta force it, maybe it ain’t worth the trouble. How would ya ever know if the feelin’s were real?”

Not that Beth believes in true love, not like that. She likes it well enough in stories, and she genuinely enjoys it when some of her folk go pairing off together, but she’s never actually experienced it herself.  

[brooklynislandgirl]

“Dirtiest thing you’ve done in bed? If you say lay down in your street clothes, we’re fighting.” - Nilza

The question brings a drawing of the little witch’s brows. She’d always assumed clothes were clothes, especially in places where garments of any sort were hard to come by. Either woven by hand or passed from one generation to the next, she can’t exactly imagine having specific ones just for being worn in the street as opposed to anywhere else. And that in turn makes her feel the slightest bit shabby in comparison to the other woman. The plain muslin dress was one of the newest things she owned, handed down from her grandmother. Bare feet whose soles were clung too by the good black earth from her herb garden. Black sweater showing holes in some places, worn thin in others to keep the evening chill at bay where the tea she was drinking couldn’t. She has a sturdy pair of brogues lined up by the door, but nothing like the hunter’s leathers and heels and all manner of apparel. Nor the paint on her face that is a long way from battle woad.

But that was all water in the wash, wasn’t it? Not the question asked of her and in all fairness she owed the woman an answer. Beth had pried into Nilza’s personal affairs more than enough the evening before over that bottle of Bennett wine.

But the problem is... Beth doesn’t have any juicy secrets, not the sort being sought after. She rubs at the side of her nose with a knuckle.

“I....uh... well... truth be told...I ain’t never....ah... danced at the Springin’ fires, neither the Harvest ones, never been taken t’ wife.”

There’d been talk, of course. Everyone flaps their gums with little stories when they get t’ jawin’ with other folks, especially at the gathering of the clans. The most prevalent was that she and Frost Rends the Bane ~John, to the Sept’s outsiders~ had a kind of understanding, though that was far from the truth. While he was perhaps the most reasonable Wendigo to ever exist, she doesn’t come from a First People heritage and even if she did, she could do nothing to add to the fruitfulness of his Tribe. No, they were close friends. Close allies, but that’s where it ended.

Beth’s moons had come later than they ought, and then dried up far too quickly. She’d gone from maiden to crone without ever having a chance to be a mother. An ironic turn of events, considering she’d helped birth most of the pups and children underfoot in these parts, could bring forth bountiful crops or cause the land to turn barren against the outsiders. But no prayer, potion, or other trick in her ancient wisdom could put seed inside herself. And that led to another rumour, that she and her brother, bless his memory, had been entirely too close as far as siblings went. The sort of nastiness one could expect from townsfolk who didn’t understand that the pair might as well have been twins even if he’d been older than her by five long years. That when he was alive he’d been her protector and her confidant, much like Frost was now. Sure, there was only the antique brass bed in her cottage. Sure, they’d shared it night after night, bundling up and cuddling close during the long snows. But that wasn’t really unusual in these parts.

And of course...there was the other hunter. Oh, he’d been pretty. Grown from a long line in which his own father had also been a hunter and his mother’d been a witch in her own right. And Baz had a talent for both running through his veins, though if she closes her eyes she can still see the look on his face when he’d trespassed onto her land and she’d greeted him from the porch with her shotgun aimed level on him. Not a few breathless kisses and almost desperate clutching had occurred before the pull of the road and debts he owed had pulled him away from the Mountain. She didn’t expect him to stay, though who could say what might have happened if he had? After a few years, she figures he’s smart and isn’t coming back. And lastly, there are the dreams. Sometimes she has them when she’s wide awake, snippets of some other now far away. The city looks nothing like what she knows. Not the sept, not town. Not even the metropolis that is Gatlinburg, which she’s been to, once, a long time ago. There’s too many people and a lot of water and things she has no name for. And there’s a boy not much younger than her. Always the same one. He feels cripplingly lonely and he dreams a lot too. She doesn’t know what the connection is, and she’s never told anyone about him. Not even Andy. She sometimes cries with him. Sometimes her hands ache something fierce, sometimes she feels this tremendously profound sorrow that hangs from him like a shroud. And sometimes, late at night, when her eyes refuse to close and she has only the company of the coons and the possums, the crickets singing their night song, she can feel...other things. Desires and hungers she’s never felt before. A vast yearning for something...or someone... else. It never lasts, no matter how much she tries to hold onto it. And even her best scrying tells her nothing more than a glimpse of hair like late summer wheat and eyes that are the heavens above in all their varying shades of blue.  She will admit to some part of that, maybe. “Sometimes...sometimes I... explore...uh...m’self. But it’s never real...satisfyin’. Not like them other gals sometimes say. I don’t think I like it very much. But it’s better’n the tub than the bed, for what it’s worth.”